


drive it like you stole it

by venomedveins



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Gangs, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, M/M, Smut, Violence, drag racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: Spartacus has a knack for taking in lost causes. It's how he's formed his group, his family really. Rebels and misfits that somehow find themselves stuck together by love and loyalty. It's a ragtag team, but they're bound by more than just affection. It's blood and salt and the strength that seems to burn along all over their spines. 
It's not even really their fucking fault that the Romans across town try to fuck with territory lines and family. Everyone needs a rival though, and Spartacus' seems to come in the form of Julius Caesar and his fucking dogs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, a very long time ago, an anon asked me to write a hate to love fic for Nagron. Then, like a year later, I finally finished this Fast & Furious AU that also kind of is like a gang AU? Not sure. Anyways, here it is.

If Agron really looked at all this, he supposes it really started when he was five. Sitting in the apartment hallway, trying to entertain Duro with some plush dog instead of having his baby brother chasing roaches up the wall. It started when their father walked past them, dragging his fingertip along the faded wallpaper. Agron can still remember the thick clunking of his boots on the hardwood, Greta's quiet crying from the kitchen. The gun he pressed into Agron's hand was too big, heavy enough that he could barely hold it steady. The handle was made of carved ivory, German script engraved in gold, biting into Agron's little palms when Wolfram pressed his hand to the side of his neck.

"Agron," Wolfram's deep voice, growling over the German words echoing down the hallway, "You need to be a man now."

"What's wrong Vati?" Agron's voice soft and German still too big of a language to fit in his child mouth. 

"I need to go." Wolfram's palm spans across Agron's spine, a heated brand, "Shoot anyone who comes through this door that isn't me. Understand?"

Agron had grown up knowing that his family was part of some German mafia, always knew to lock doors behind him and keep an ear out for foot falls on the stairs. And five-year-old Agron had slipped his thumb over the hammer in the back, listened to the latch click. Wolfram's grin was all proud lines and dark eyes, a quick kiss to Duro's dark curls and then he was gone. 

Or maybe, it started when Agron met Spartacus in juvie, teenagers caught up in the wrong thing at the wrong time. Agron was in for assault, a fight that went too far. Spartacus was in for robbery, attempting to help a homeless kid get medicine for pneumonia. Their friendship was easy, Agron’s loyalty drawn the moment that Spartacus promised to take care of Duro when he got out.

Spartacus has a knack for taking in lost causes. It's how he's formed his group, his family really. Rebels and misfits that somehow find themselves stuck together by love and loyalty. It's a ragtag team, but they're bound by more than just affection. It's blood and salt and the strength that seems to burn along all over their spines. 

It's not even really their fucking fault that the Romans across town try to fuck with territory lines and family. Everyone needs a rival though, and Spartacus' seems to come in the form of Julius Caesar and his fucking dogs. 

Or maybe, Agron wonders, if it started when he went to that party with Duro. The one that was in some random fucking basement, neon lights flashing and that pounding house music. Duro had fucked off to God knows where. Mira and Naevia fading into the other warm bodies, dancing in tight circles with hands above their heads. 

Agron had been halfway through a water bottle of whiskey when he saw him. Dancing in tiny cut off shorts and bright red Doc Martins, a tank top hanging wide open on both sides. Agron had accepted the ecstasy on his tongue, kissed it out of his mouth, eager and hungry. Had watched Nasir take his own, still shaking his ass and grinning, those dark eyes sparking neon. 

He can't really blame it on Nasir though. Can't say it was all his fault that he took him over into some dark corner, fucked him hard and fast, marked him up and made Nasir scream. He took him home after too, fed Nasir expensive coffee, listened to him laugh laying naked in Agron's big bed. Then, he went down on Nasir, ate him out until the sun was starting to threaten on the horizon, can still hear Nasir's hisses, his moans, his begging. 

But no, Agron should have fucking paid attention. Between tossing Nasir onto his back and pulling him into his lap, between digging his teeth into Nasir's neck and listening to him cry out. Agron thought he saw that curl of a red snake around Nasir's ankle, but then he got distracted by the cut of Nasir's hips, his thighs soft and perfect to bite. It wasn't until Spartacus brought him into the shop that Agron fucking realized. 

Spartacus and his lost causes. Wanting to save Nasir by having him spy, finding a loop hole that branding. Caesar owns Nasir's ass, clearly has him running little errands, drugs and messages, probably coaxing crime with those eyelashes and that smile. Nasir isn't a high up goon, but he has his purpose and if he disappeared, it'd be noticed. 

Agron can't blame this on anyone but himself. Can pinpoint the very second all this shit really started by a picture saved deep in his phone. Nasir completely naked save for his wrists, heavy with bracelets, kneeling with legs spread, back to the camera. He's got his fingers spread on the glass of Agron's fucking perfectly restored Chevelle, smile coy as he looks over his shoulder. The headlights find every attractive shadow and highlight on Nasir's body, glowing yellow gold. 

It's all Agron's fault because he can't stop. Because he wants to hate Nasir. Wants to discard him like Agron's so used to. Nasir isn’t something to be held though. He’s sharp eyes and sharper teeth, can be so cruel when he shrugs Agron’s advances off, laughs and runs away. It’s the worst kind of cat and mouse. An enigma that Agron pretends not to hunt in the shadows of their fucked up lives. Agron has seen him at his finest, dressed and primped perfect, dancing in neon lights and coaxing secrets out of usually sealed lips. But he’s also seen him at his finest with dirty knees, mouth and hands covered in blood, the snarl of his mouth hissing as shadows play along all his lines. 

Agron has never wanted anything so much. 

\- - - 

Static electricity runs along the streets of the city, sparking around corners and coiling through the subway grates. Even with the sun gone, the moon gleaming above, the heat presses down on the concreate and metal. It's oppressive, slicking skin and choking breath. Every red light is the calm in the thunder, the cracking of lightening as steel and rubber squeals in a blur of chrome and green.

This is his kingdom, Agron’s concrete jungle. Say a prayer and cross yourself to the holy house of Axl Rose. Spartacus doesn’t run the streets anymore, not at night and not behind the neon glow of a dashboard. He’s shifted to more respectable nights spent building his little house in the better side of the bad side of town. Mira hung up curtains and Spartacus is happy to spend quiet nights at home now, though his front door is always unlocked to those who need it.

“Agron!” Duro laughs from the hood of Auctus’ car, sweat has darkened the front of his shirt in a deep v. “What the fuck is up with you tonight?”

“What?” Agron flicks his cigarette to the side, watches the cherry dance across the black asphalt. He’s bored, so fucking bone weary, of sitting on the hood of his car. 

“You’ve been glaring at the ground for the past fifteen minutes.” Reaching back into the passenger seat, Duro yanks a bottle out of the cooler there, handing it over. “Relax a little, would ya? No one likes a fucking downer.”

“Lot going on,” Agron waves a hand noncommittally at his head, taking the beer. He cracks it open with one hand, resting the bowed underside along his kneecap after taking a heavy swallow. “Stuck on shit. I’m tired of waiting on these fucks.”

“Well, don’t let it fuck with your driving, man. Would hate for you to lose this beauty.” Auctus whistles low as he points towards Agron’s car. It’s in mint condition considering the age, a black 1970 Chevelle, blacked out to the very tip of the illegal scale. It’s Agron’s baby, his pride and joy, and he doesn’t expect to hand it over.

The game tonight is simple, but the concept is not. The track is a complicated mess of turns, highways, and downtown metropolis. There is a construction site on the last leg of the trip too, a sprawling half mile of cones and reflective gear. Unlike other times when races are done and money exchanged, tonight is the result of months of pent up hatred and fighting. When Agron had snarled his challenge to Castus, he put down the wager himself. They’re racing for slips.

“Speaking of beauty.” Duro motions behind Agron, a knowing grin slowly taking over his face. 

The steady thumping of bass blaring out of the car only adds to the already pounding music, the tires squealing as the driver turns sharply, pulling up to a stop. Cherry paint glistens in the street lamps, the wings of the phoenix, spread in dark lines of black and gold, glitters dangerously antagonizing the tension on the street. The door clicks open, thick Doc Martins swinging out, attached to smooth calves, soft thighs, and rough edged cut offs. He slams the car door behind him, stepping out and into the headlights, shadow casting a long line. 

“Your daddy know that you are out trying to race with the big boys?” Agron calls, one booted foot pressed to the wheel of his car. The beer balanced on his knee is dripping condensation onto his jeans. It matches the sweat pooling under his tank top, sticking the fabric to his chest. “Don’t you have a curfew, sweetheart?” 

Checking his nails, Nasir sighs dramatically, glancing up as if surprised. He cocks a hip, full attitude as his dark eyes track over Agron. “I’m sorry, did you say something? It’s so hard to understand you with Spartacus’ dick always in your mouth.”

Agron raises his eyebrows at that, surprised at the easy rebuttal. In the back light, Agron can see that he’s wearing one of his cut up tank tops again, the sides open and loose. It’s too hot for real clothes. Nasir nearly preens under the attention, smirk growing even wider. His hair is sweat curled at the base of his neck from where it’s slipped out of his high ponytail. 

“That’s cute. Baby boy has a bite.” Agron snaps his teeth together for affect.

“I have more than that.” Nasir presses the tip of his tongue to his top teeth. His fingers trail over his stomach for a moment, too self-aware and too sure of himself. “I have all sorts of things.”  
“I can see that.” Agron’s eyes trace down the line of his hips, over his thin knees down to his calves. His shorts are frayed enough they sit low on his hips and thighs, showing the soft inside, a shadow of a bruise here and there. Just above the hemline, Agron can make out the black swirl of a tattoo. 

Nasir drags his bottom lip from between his teeth, watching Agron closely. “Careful. Staring at me like that. Doesn’t Spartacus usually whistle you back by now? Where is your leash?”

“I’m all alone tonight.” Agron spreads his arms a little, ignoring Duro’s quiet cackling behind him. 

“So, Spartacus is letting his dog run free now?” Nasir purses his lips. He seems indifferent when he glances over Agron, eyes only sparking a little when Agron shifts, arms flexing. “Well, what can one expect. Even when trash gets taken out, it still stinks.”

“Now, now, Nasir. No need to be that way. Didn’t anyone teach you to play nice?” Agron asks, scoffing at the nitpicking now. He doesn’t want to play word games with Nasir right now. He wants to finish this beer, beat Castus’ ass, and then go home, collapse into bed and not think about Nasir’s legs around his waist. 

“So, let’s play.” Even the squealing of tires doesn’t seem to draw his attention, Nasir tapping the toes of his boots on the asphalt, grin flashing. “You think you can beat me in that old relic?”

“I’m sure I can,” Agron smirks, tracing a finger down the hood of the Chevelle, “It helps when you’re working with quality equipment.”

“The ride or the driver?” With his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, Nasir pulls his shorts down a little, the sharp bone of one hip sliding into view. Part of the tattoo, Agron can see, is the black and sharp curve of a wing. 

“Both.” Agron watches a strand of Nasir’s hair curl against his neck, framing the bones there. He wants to brush it away and replace it with his teeth. “No concept for you? Always having to deal with foreign trash?”

Nasir makes a rude gesture with his hand, unrelenting though. He’s all fire and gasoline tonight, not bothering to even glance at the rest of Agron’s pack. “All I hear is you running your mouth.”

“I’m calling it how I see it,” Agron laughs, sharp and dark as he spreads his arms. “Quality over quantity, right? It doesn’t matter how many fucking cars or drugs or jobs they pull off. You know who you belong to, and you know what’s coming.”

“Are we going to race or just talk about it?” Nasir looks bored again, rolling his eyes. “You keep talking and yet, I’m beginning to think that you use that car for a chair and nothing else.”

“Sorry, babe, no can do. I don’t play with jailbait,” Agron responds smoothly, taking a slow pull of his beer, “Nor do I touch Roman property. Can never get the stench off.”

“If you’re too chicken shit, then just fess up,” Nasir laughs sharp, the sound bitter and goading. He knows what he’s doing, pushing all the buttons until Agron’s palms ache from where he’s pressing his fingers there.

The two stare at each other for a moment, a few tense chuckles sounding around between the thumping of subs and the revving on nearby engines. Nasir idly picks at the fraying edge of his jean shorts, unamused by the sly hit against his pride. Everyone thinks he’s fucking Castus, that he’s his little property, that he bends over the front of Castus’ Ferrari whenever he wants. The truth is Nasir would rather walk out in front of one of the racing cars let Castus put his hands on him. No, Castus is just the fly that seems to always be hovering around Nasir, spying and prying. 

“Come on Agron. Where’s that balls to the wall attitude you’re so fucking famous for?” Nasir drags his lips together, teeth catching on the corner. “Or is that just an exaggeration? A little short of the full package?”

His eyes pointedly drag down Agron’s body, over his chest and stomach, settling at the level of his belt. Nasir stays there, considering with the slow tilt of his head before snapping his gaze back up to Agron’s eyes. It’s coy and dirty, a cheap jab considering how intimately familiar Nasir is with that part of Agron’s anatomy. 

Someone turns the subs up in their car, the asphalt and windshields shaking from the power of it. It’s some reggae remix, a few girls sliding off the hood of an Evo, screaming in delight as they begin to dance. More alcohol is passed from the back of a truck to another, someone turning on a spotlight as two dirt bikes spin in tight circles. Down here, the neon lights reflect off the warehouse windows like a hundred mirrors, a shining city of degeneration and sin. 

“You want to check for me?” Agron asks, rising to the challenge. “Isn’t that part of your job description for those Roman shits that own your ass?”

Nasir stands still as Agron slips off his Chevy and approaches him, drawing in close enough that only Nasir can hear. To anyone watching, it would appear that Agron is mocking him, shoulders back in a cocky stance. Nasir hates that he has to crane his head back to look at him, hates that having Agron this close enough makes his heart beat faster. Hates even more than he wants to punch the smirk off Agron’s face and then lick his teeth free of blood. 

“You’re a fucking dick.” Nasir hisses, barely resisting the urge to grip the front of Agron’s tank and tug down. Anything to dent that perfectly coiled control. 

“And you shouldn’t be here.” Agron replies, taking another drag of his beer. He keeps his eyes on Nasir when he swallows, licking over his hips. The smaller man tracks the movement, scowl darkening.

“Fuck off. You don’t own the street. If I want to be here, I can.”

“You’re not racing me with that piece of shit car,” Agron’s words are sharp, teeth glinting in the street lamp. He’s so close that he can smell Nasir, can almost taste that soft path of skin along Nasir’s neck that slopes into his shoulder. He can see the sweat slicking down his ribs, dipping further until it gets lost in his tank top again. “Go home.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.” Nasir does his very best not to stomp his foot. “I’m Roman trash, remember?”

“I can,” Agron retorts, barely resisting the urge to wrap his hand around the back of Nasir’s ponytail and _pull_. “What are you even fucking doing here? Spartacus told you-”

“It’s summer. I’m bored. I wanted to come out and race,” Nasir reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pink wrapped blow pop. He begins to twist the paper off, the sickly-sweet scent of artificial strawberry filling the small gap between them. “Besides, I thought you liked staring at me from behind.”

“Don’t play dumb.” Agron hisses, craning his head down so he can murmur the words, sure no one can hear them over the music anyways. “I’m not fucking joking. it’s fucking dangerous. You know what tonight is,” Agron warns, stepping even closer, only to be cut off at the roar of another engine entering the street. Nasir pops the bright colored sucker into his mouth, grinning around it. 

“Don’t worry,” Nasir smells like cherry, mouth already beginning to stain red, “Looks like Castus is here to protect me.”

“He’s not-” Agron can practically smell the cheap plastic of Castus’ little foreign sports car as it squeals into the parking lot, scowl pulling his top lip up in a snarl. 

“Green is your color,” Nasir’s grin is wide, knowing and sharp. He leans forward on his toes, pressing a sticky kiss to Agron’s jaw, “You can punish me later, Daddy.”

He flips his hair when he turns, smirking over his shoulder, and acid bites at the back of Agron’s throat. He shouldn’t really fucking care if Castus and Nasir are fucking. It’s none of his business. And yet, there is something about it that turns Agron’s stomach. There is just something about the way Nasir kind of bounces towards the rest of the Romans, glancing over his shoulder when he wraps an arm around Pietros’ waist.

“Fucking tease.”

Agron lets himself look for only a second more, half hard in his jeans and wanting nothing more than to call Nasir names while he bends him over the hood of his car. It's not like Agron doesn't fucking have options. There is a line of boys around this fucking place, pretty with eager mouths and pupil blown eyes, that would slip easily into Agron's backseat. Yet, every fucking time someone comes to press up against him, Agron can't fucking focus. All he sees is long hair and Nasir's grinning face, the press of his mouth roughly against Agron's shoulder when he comes with a cry. 

It’s a lost cause as the next moment, Castus slides his way through the Roman crowd. He’s got that shit eating grin on his face, the one that Agron has attempted to punch off before. Castus is wearing an obnoxiously blue tank top, the lines of it covered in some intricate pattern of waves. Strutting over, Agron doesn’t miss the way Castus casually reaches out for Nasir, wrapping a loose arm around his waist, fingers settling just over Nasir’s bare hipbone. 

“Didn’t think you were gonna fucking show,” Agron says in way of greeting, leaning casually back on the side of his car. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Duro slide out from between Auctus’ legs, approaching as well. 

“And miss beating your ass? Unfuckinglikely.” Castus’ hand is low on Nasir’s hips, fingers just barely brushing the top of his jean short, touching skin and rubbing. “Besides, my lucky charm wants a show.”

Nasir rolls his eyes, checks his nails, and flashes his teeth at Agron – goading and sharp. Agron isn’t blind so he notices when Nasir shifts half a step to the right, lets Castus’ hand drag away from his bare skin. There is something dark in his gaze, a little heated and a little frightened as he watches Agron through thick fringed eyes. Agron has the strong urge to reach forward and gently take his hand but refrains.

“I don’t think keeping barely legal arm candy is going to help your driving abilities.” Agron smirks, spreading his arms. “But hey, what do I know? I’ve just fucking slaughtered your ass every time you try and race me.”

“Hey asshole!” Nasir tries to step forward, voice drown out by the other’s around him calling their obscenities.

“That mouth of yours one day is going to get you in trouble.” Castus points at Agron, mouth twisting. “One day you’re going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and-“

“You got what I came for?” Agron rolls his eyes. He’s already bored with idle Roman threats. 

Agron can feel Duro near him, Auctus, Barca, and Donar just behind. This isn’t all fun and games tonight. They’re here on Spartacus’ mission, his business. Doesn’t fucking matter if Agron tends to take these little races a little too far. He’s washed enough blood off his hands to not flinch under it. He’s a good right hand man, and he has no intention of fucking it up just because he really fucking wants to punch Castus just for breathing. 

“Depends.” Castus’ dark eyes slide away from Agron’s face to the trunk of his Chevy. 

“I’m good.” Agron finishes the last swig of his beer, tossing the bottle away. It shatters on the cement, a million shards of glass to reflect off the tail lights. He notices it when Nasir startles, something wide eyed and frantic about it as he sidesteps out of Castus’ grip. He meets Agron’s eyes, blinking quickly, before he shakes it off, trying to ease his arm around Pietros to hide the movement. 

“I bet you are.” Castus’ eyes rake down Agron, accessing and cool. It gets under Agron’s skin, the way he’s standing, cocky and self-assured. Fuck, Agron hates him. 

“How about you stop running your mouth and we get on with this?” Agron shrugs one shoulder indifferent only in his confidence, “I have twenty grand and a pink slip riding on you choking out like always.”

“Fuck off man. You talk a lot of shit, but you don’t have the balls to come through.” Castus sneers, arms crossing over his chest.

Agron just smirks, slowly pulling his keys from his pocket. He has no use for words now, the frenzy of anger and a challenge fueling him on. He wants to go. He wants to get this fucking over with, feel the rush of leather beneath him, the purr of the engine when he shifts from one gear to another. This is where pain and pleasure meet, a fury that Agron craves. 

“A man about business always.” Castus taps the lip of his snapback in a mock salute, that fucking grin spreading across his face. “Let’s fucking play.”

Castus lets out a call, shaking his hand in a wide circle above his head. Dark eyed boys slides from the hoods of their cars, mouth pulled back in grins hinting malintent. The Romans snap together like bricks, falling into formation as they move towards one another, creating one long line. The sounds of the party are still loud, people still shouting and laughing over the sound of the thumping base, but the tension heightens, excitement and danger mixing in the summer heat. It’s been a while since Castus and Agron raced. 

Agron turns his back on them, taking his time as he walks around the hood of his car. They’ve been playing this sort of chess match long enough that Agron has stopped being interested in them. He’s going to fucking do this and do it right, get Spartacus what he needs to tear this gang to shreds. The rest of the Rebels are watching him, Duro stepping out of the ropes of Auctus’ arms to bump his forehead against Agron’s. 

“You’ve got this. Kick his fucking ass.”

Agron flashes his teeth at them, slipping down into his car. Duro shuts the door for him, slapping his hand on the hood just as Agron pulls up to the line. Castus is already there, sipping some neon colored can, fingers tapping on his steering wheel. He raises it towards Agron in a mock toast, revving his engine when Agron flashes him the finger. 

“Hey!”

Nasir is suddenly there, halfway leaning through the open driver’s side window, necklace swinging down to brush Agron’s thigh. He smells like cherry candy, lips stained red in the center and face flushed from the summer heat. There is sweat at his temples, curling his hair, and he cocks his head slightly, eyes huge and dark. It makes Agron’s chest tighten, burning to reach over and taste him.

“What do you want?” Agron readjusts himself in his seat, fingers dancing along his gear shift. He wants to go, wants to feel the vibration of the engine under him, the burning of city street lamps on his skin.

“You.” Nasir dances his fingers over Agron’s thigh, coy and grinning. He’s leaning over so Castus can’t see in the car, instead gets a full view of Nasir’s ass in those tiny shorts. “If you win, I’ll let you fuck me in your back seat.”

“It’s not really a reward if I’ve already done that.” Agron checks his mirrors just so he doesn’t have to look at Nasir. He can feel his cock twitch every time Nasir exhales.

Nasir makes a noise, half contempt and half giggle, finger tips skirting over Agron’s fly. His breath is hot on the side of Agron’s neck as he whispers. “What if I let you fuck me bare?”

“High stakes.” Agron turns boldly, meeting Nasir’s wide eyed gaze with one of his own, tongue breaching over his bottom lip to lap at it. “You’re really going to bet your ass?”

“You really want to do this?” Nasir asks, something wild and desperate in his gaze even if the words are meant to sound playful. “Castus isn’t fucking around. _Caesar_ isn’t fucking around.”

“Spartacus sent me out here to get the fucking info and that’s what I’m going to do.” Agron shrugs one shoulder in indifference. “If that means beating the shit out of your boyfriend, then so be it.”

“Castus isn’t my boyfriend.” Nasir goes to recoil, wide grin dropping into a scowl, but Agron grabs his wrist, keeping him in place. “And fuck you.”

“You just make sure that when my headlights come around that finish line, you are ready to go, okay?” Agron raises an eyebrow at him, wiling him to understand. “Tonight isn’t the night to be out on the streets.”

They stare at each other for a few moments, both knowing too much and running out of time. It’s a dangerous dance they have going, secrets meddling into heat whenever they get together. Agron knows that there is more on the line tonight than before, a mission sent too far with too many eyes watching. It’s written all over Nasir’s expression – the horror of what is really fucking going on. 

“Come on, you German fuck!” Castus’ voice cuts through their spell, slicing it in half. “Or is my baby scaring you off?”

“Go fuck yourself!” Agron shouts in reply, revving his engine in annoyance. 

Nasir is nearly out of the window when his hand clamps down on Agron’s jaw, palms sweaty and unnaturally cool for the summer heat. He pulls them close, Nasir’s words nearly breathed directly into Agron’s mouth.

“Agron.”

Nasir hisses, desperate and quick.

“Send Duro home.”

“What?” Agron glances behind Nasir’s shoulder to where Duro has returned to his post leaning between Auctus’ thighs. 

“Just do it. Send them home.”

And then he’s gone, ducking out from between the Rebel’s line up and quickly retreating to the Roman side of the parking lot. He does it expertly, swaying in a way that makes it seem mocking, almost as if he’s spent the past few minutes terrorizing Agron than warning him. Something buries itself hot and acidic in Agron’s chest as he watches Nasir walk away, pulling his shorts up just enough for the soft curve of his ass to show, blowing a kiss in a salute to the lined up cars. 

“I’m going to tap that so hard tonight.” Castus laughs, throwing his head back against his headrest. He makes a crude motion with his fingers and tongue.

Agron flashes his teeth at Castus, growling as the leather creeks on the steering wheel under his fingers. The words he wants to say are lost, having to be swallowed down, choked back. There will be a day, Agron is sure, when he can finally pummel that grin off his face. 

“Let’s fucking go.”

A tall brunette in a strappy red dress steps out, waving a small scarf. Agron rolls his eyes, over the stereotypical bullshit, but he revs his engine anyway, inching forward half a foot. He can still hear Castus' laughter, the taunting sound of his jabs, knowing what is on the line if Agron fails. Across the asphalt, Nasir is sitting on the hood of his car, Pietros next to him. He isn't smiling or laughing, frozen and somber as he stares at Agron's car. 

Agron flexes his fingers again the steering wheel, debating. Nasir didn’t give a reason and Agron doesn’t trust him. Spies for Spartacus are still spies, and Agron doesn’t know where Nasir’s loyalty lies. Still, the way he’s staring says something, desperate and begging to be trusted. Cursing himself, he tugs his phone from his cup holder, typing out a quick message to Duro. He does it in a way he knows his little brother won't disagree, even if he's furious at getting a direct order. When he's done, he tosses the phone back down, revving his engine in response to Castus’. 

“Hey Agron,” Castus calls over the roar, grin spreading over his face, “Next time we should up the wager. I’ll bet Nasir if you bet your brother. Pretty sure I can give it to Duro better than that fucking chump he’s with.”

“You come anywhere near Duro and I’ll rip your balls off and hang them around my rearview mirror.” Agron snarls, turning up his music so he doesn’t have to hear Castus’ bullshit reply. He wants to make another comment about how Nasir isn’t property, how he’s smart and fucking beautiful and Agron would make that bet only to save him except Nasir would never agree. 

Agron can feel his heartbeat in his wrists, fingertips dancing over the chrome gearshift. It's centered down now, every breath that Agron draws in, the shifting of leather, the way the woman's hair sways in the sticky summer air. Her arm is up, ready for the kill, and with a grin, she drops the scarf. 

Fuck, Agron loves this feeling. The initial lurch of the car, the growl that rises in his throat, the way his teeth perfectly align and grind against one another, sharp and painful. He urges the Chevy forward, fingers tight around the top of the wheel as his other cups the gearshift. Agron doesn't hold back anything in life, gives it all he's got, so when he rounds a corner with Castus just behind him, Agron is quick to down shift and then up, coaxing forward another two feet into the lead. 

Glancing at his mirrors, Agron can see Castus swearing, leaning forward in his seat. He's all tension, making his engine whine with the way he's treating it. Heavy hand and too hard on the clutch will kill it every time. Agron already knows he has this in the fucking bag as his car swerves onto a new street, only to be nearly blinded by the flash of red and blue before him. 

Six cop cars, sirens blazing, peel out from a side parking lot. It's a setup, clear as fucking day, but Agron doesn't fucking get it. He's only one person, it's not like the Romans planned a sting of the Rebel's headquarters. But then, the first car hesitates only a moment too long, and Agron is able to squeeze by it, car zooming towards the freeway, catching the reflection of the three more cops heading back the way Agron came. They're headed towards the party. 

"Fuck!" Slamming his hands down on the steering wheel, Agron hangs a sharp left, tires squealing in protest. He fumbles in his cup holder, managing to grip his phone and press speed dial before having to shift up again. 

"Duro!" Agron shouts, barely missing a red light and proceeding down a narrow alley. The cops behind him are a block or so behind, struggling to keep up with the three hundred and seventy horses powering Agron's car. 

"What?" Duro's voice whines petulant and sassy. 

"Where are you?" Agron balances the phone in his GPS holder, managing to swing past one cop and cause him to crash into a large trash bin. 

"You fucking sent me home! Where do you think I am?" Duro snaps, sounding like he's rolling his eyes. "I'm almost back to Auctus' place."

"Stay there! This whole thing was a fucking set up. Romans got cops all over my ass." Agron barks, shifting up once more to swerve down a low ramp. At the bottom, there is a two way stop and another parking lot. Agron swings the car left just as the cop does it behind him, and then quickly corrects right. The cop doesn't get a chance to do it, swerving hard into a parking sign. 

"Agron! Agron!" Duro is shouting into the phone, voice desperate.

"It's cool. I lost them. I'm in Roman territory though. Gonna head back to the shop." Agron's pulse is still racing wildly as he shifts, pulling the phone down. "Stay with Auctus, alright? I'll hit you up when it's safe."

Duro gives his assent to the command and Agron tosses his phone away from him with a deep sign. He fucked it up again, though he supposes Spartacus can't be mad this time. Fuck Castus and this shit though. Agron is so fucking tired of all the games these people play. Why can't they just have an honest fight?

Agron pulls into the garage nearly forty minutes after the race ended, blood still thrumming and furious He wants to make sure no cops are about, hiding in the dark corners of the summer night. When he's sure he's safe, he drives the Chevy deep into the garage, carefully covering her with a tarp, before taking the stairs two at a time. The apartment over the shop is more of a warehouse room than a living space. The far-right wall is all windows, foot high squares over and over, tinted gray by the glass inside of them. There is a kitchen area with a long island made of cut pieces of marble, a living room with a large but worn couch, and a small bathroom off to the corner. The far back is the bedroom, a king-size in the middle of the floor with a patterns of cerebellum rope lights above it. The whole space is washed in dark blue, the glow seeming almost aquatic as Agron's eyes adjust just enough to notice the figure sitting on his kitchen counters. 

"You really should lock your doors. You never know who might come in." Nasir's voice echoes in the large room, his bare feet taping a steady rhythm against the island's legs. 

"Or what the cat will drag in." Agron grumbles, tossing his keys on the small entry way table and pulling the door down. It's one of those old factory ones on a chain. “Why are you here?”

“Cops raided the party and your house was the closest one and I knew you wouldn’t be home.” Nasir shrugs one shoulder, “I already texted Spartacus when I heard you pull in to let him know you got out safe. He said lay low until he gets a hold of you.”

“How kind.” Agron grumbles, rolling his eyes as he eases the side of his hand over his brow. The adrenaline from before is starting to settle, Agron’s chest slowly coming down from its rapid beat. 

"Want a beer?" Nasir holds out a bottle, his own nestled between his legs. Agron turns his attention from the smooth cut of Nasir's thighs to his face, glowering. He doesn’t want to want Nasir this bad. Doesn’t’ want to have to swallow down attraction and lust whenever Nasir turns those big eyes on him. 

"Are you even old enough to have this?" Agron pulls the bottle from Nasir's hand, using the end of his t-shirt to twist off the top.

"Fuck you." Nasir snaps, swallowing deeply from his own bottle. "You can stop with the cradle robbing jokes. If I'm old enough to ride your dick, I think I'm old enough to drink your beer."

Agron inhales slowly, chugging half his bottle as he watches Nasir. He’s taken his shoes off, the front of his tank top hanging loose and open. Agron can see he’s covered in goosebumps, the summer heat trapped outside. He wants to press his mouth to the soft skin peaking out between Nasir’s thighs, drag his shorts down slowly and listen to that hitch in Nasir’s breath he always gets when he’s starting to get hard.

"You can't be here. You know that." Agron sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. “if Castus or Caesar saw you-“

“No one knows I’m here. They all think I’m home with Pietros. It’s not the first time I’ve snuck out.” Nasir rolls his eyes, swinging his legs a little harder.

“It’s not you being out that is the problem. It’s you being here.” Agron moves away from him then, sitting on the edge of the couch to start removing his shoes, tossing them towards his closet as he pulls his t-shirt off too. He’s got his fingers on his belt buckle when he hears Nasir slip down from the counter, bare feet landing on cool wood. 

“Just so you know, Castus wanted me to plant a kilo in your backseat. That way when the cops caught you, you'd be shipped off." Nasir forcefully sets his bottle down on the counter. "Instead, I fucking warned you and told you to send Duro home. But you know what, fuck you. I'm so fucking done helping you."

"Helping me? How the fuck did you help me? So you didn't plant drugs in my car. You still fucking work for them." Agron snarls, rounding back on him, shoulders tense and flexing. “You still do their dirty work whenever they ask.”

"Work for them? I’ve been fucking double crossing them for six months now. Doing everything I can to help you and Spartacus!” Nasir’s voice raises, sharp and furious. “Do you know what would happen to me if they found out?”

“No one is making you fucking work for Spartacus. You said yes when he offered.” Agron curls his fingers into fists at his side. “If you’re feeling fucking guilty, that’s your own problem.”

“Guilty? You think I feel bad because I’m helping Spartacus?” Nasir narrows his eyes. “I didn’t agree to do this because I wanted to get back at the Romans. I am doing it because Pietros needs to get out, to make sure him and me have a fighting chance. And they would skin me alive if they found out all the shit I’ve been pulling for you and your fucking gang.”

“Then fucking go back to them! Fuck knows you strut around like they still own you, like you fucking love their mark on you.” Agron sneers, eyes raking down Nasir’s body. “Or do you only dress like this when Castus is watching?”

“I’m not fucking Castus, for the last time,” Nasir slams his hand into Agron’s shoulder, shoving him back half a step. Agron only moves out of surprise, not force. “And so, what if I was? Are you mad because it’s Castus or are you mad that I might be fucking someone who isn’t you?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t give a shit about you.” Looming at Nasir, Agron grits his teeth. “You were just convenient.”

“Fine.” Nasir brandishes a flash drive at Agron, shoving it into his chest. “Here, isn’t this what you wanted? The info Spartacus needs? Nice fucking doing business with you. My _convenience_ is now null and void.”

He begins to walk towards the door, grabbing his Doc Martens by the back of the couch on his way. Agron doesn’t let him get very far though, reaching out to snatch a hand around Nasir’s arm. He turns him, letting go when Nasir yanks against it, eyes blazing. It doesn’t matter, all the things that Agron had to say suddenly slide away from him as Nasir’s glaring eyes meet his. The stare off feels deadly, charged on the cusp of something. 

Then, suddenly, Agron is surging forward, hands warm and huge on the sides of Nasir’s face as he kisses him, rough and opened mouthed from the start. He’s so fucking mad, furious at the race, at the way Nasir had yelled at him, at the way his life is now. But he can’t stop, tongue pressing hot and feverish against Nasir’s lips and then inside, chasing the taste of beer off his gums. Nasir gives as good as he gets, nails sharp on Agron’s chest as he rests his hands there, face up turned and hiding a whimper inside a gasp.

“God, I fucking hate you.” Nasir gasps as Agron’s hands move from his face to his ass, lifting him up off the ground. "So much."

Agron growls in response when Nasir’s thighs squeeze around his waist, pressing him hard up against one of the support beams running the length of the room. He keeps his hands on Nasir's ass, squeezing hard before slipping one down and then back up, coaxing his fingers under the hem of Nasir's cut offs. He's met by smooth skin, damp with sweat and still warm, Nasir wiggling when Agron manages to get his whole hand over one side of his ass. 

"You always go commando?" Agron growls, snapping his teeth together when Nasir drags his nails through Agron's hair. 

"Are you always such a fucking dick?" Nasir asks, scowling through a groan as Agron's fingers trail along him. He nearly smacks his head on the beam behind when Agron presses the tip of his finger against his hole - teasing.

"Still turns you on though, doesn't it?" Agron murmurs into Nasir's ear, feeling the other man exhale sharp and desperate. "Feel yourself gaping for it, wanting to be filled up in ways you know only I can give you. Isn't that right Nasir/ Crave it when I'm inside you, so deep you can barely fucking breathe."

"You're not as good as you think you are," Nasir pants, rolling his hips down. He's pinned in the next moment, Agron pressing him flush against the cold metal behind him so Agron can grind his hips up against Nasir's ass. Even through two layers of denim, Nasir can feel the long, thick press of Agron's cock against his ass. 

"You say that," Agron growls, nose brushing Nasir's, "but you always come back. Always moan and beg and cry when I'm inside you. Tell me to go harder, go deeper."

"Fu-" Nasir gasps when Agron finally gets his shorts unbuttoned, getting both hands up his shorts, "Fuck you."

Agron's laugh is deep, rumbling in his chest as he bites along Nasir's neck, sucking a mark until it's vibrant red. Scuffling backwards, Agron moves them towards the bed, one arm wrapped around Nasir while the other plays with his rim. Nasir moans loud and long into Agron's mouth, grinding on him until they reach the end of the bed. 

He lands against the pillows, Nasir looking up at Agron with dazed and glassy eyes, legs spread. Agron takes a moment to take him in, the soft cut of his body, his bruised mouth, and fuck. Agron wants him so bad he can barely fucking breath, cock already aching in the tight denim of his jeans. When he climbs up onto the mattress, he hooks his arms around Nasir's legs and tugs, yanking him down the bed to meet him. 

"This is the last time." Agron snarls, yanking on Nasir's tank top until he can get it off. 

"Should have never been a first." Nasir hisses back, tossing Agron's belt off the bed as he sits up to work on the buttons of his jeans. 

Agron isn't standing for it though, shoving at Nasir's shoulder so he falls back, panting at the ceiling as Agron kicks his jeans off, tossing Nasir's shorts to the same fate. They’re both naked now, pressing hard and rough against one another, grinding for friction that's not enough to be real pleasure. Agron's cock is already leaking, smearing precome all over Nasir's stomach, his hip bones. He grinds through the mess, fumbling with the bedside drawer to yank out the lube and a condom. 

"Hands and knees." Agron hooks a hand under Nasir's hip, easily flipping him over. If the action annoys Nasir, he doesn't respond, allowing the manhandling as he gets his knees under him. 

When Agron presses the first finger inside of him, Nasir's chest hits the mattress, back arched sharply and legs wide. Agron works the fingers for a few minutes before pulling out, leaning down to lick a stripe over him, teasing at his perineum. Nasir reaches back, fingers desperate as they curl in Agron's hair, holding him there against him and grinding back a little, Nasir's cock wet and flushed on the tip. He wants Agron inside of him so bad, but he also wants Agron never to stop eating him out. It's torture to even pick between the two. Thankfully, he doesn't have to.

Moving back, Agron adds more lube to his fingers and works the second and then the third into Nasir's hole, spreading them wide and scissoring him. Nasir moans through it, making these heady low hisses every time Agron brushes his fingertip over his prostate. It's torture, kept on the cusp of pleasure without being able to sink down into it. Agron gets like this sometimes, teasing and torturous, wanting to see how far down into pleasure Nasir can go.

"Are you going to fuck me or just play with my ass all night?" Nasir pants over his shoulder, face flushed and brow sweating again. Agron growls at him, smacking his ass once before reaching for the condom. 

Agron pushes in as Nasir exhales, keeping his palm firm in the center of Nasir's back as he sinks deeper. Anyone else, and Agron would have rammed home already, lost himself in the frenzy of heat and slick. But he knows how Nasir likes it, knows he has to be coaxed into taking Agron, going slow and incredibly deep, grinding there until Nasir's body adjusts to the large intrusion. He takes it so well though, arches his back and whimpers as Agron’s balls finally nestle against his ass.

Finally all the way in, Agron drapes himself across Nasir's back, listens to his breathing, his quiet little whimpers as his body stretches around Agron's girth. He burns to ask Nasir if he's alright, if he can move, if it's too much, but Nasir has hidden his face in his hands, breathing shallowly. He waits, rubbing warm and large hands all over Nair’s body, around his shoulders and down onto his chest, easing over his stomach. 

"Fuck, Nasir, how are you so tight? " Agron grits out, sliding his hand up Nasir's spine to grab a fist full of his hair as Nasir wiggles back against him.

“Agron,” Nasir cranes his head to the side, moans hard when Agron digs his teeth into his neck. 

Agron takes it as the invitation, grounding his hips and beginning to thrust short and sharp into Nasir, making sure he grinds his cock down ever every time. Nasir can definitely feel it, tossing his head back as much as he can and crying out when Agron tugs harder on his hair. Pinned under Agron like this, Nasir can't fucking breath, can't even think, smothered by heat and sweat. He wants to be pressed down flat, to feel Agron on top of him, every inch. 

"Come on, I want to hear you." Agron goads, thrust particularly rough into Nasir, "Let me hear it."

"Hate you." Nasir snaps through a gasp, eyes rolling back in his head. “Hate you so much.”

Pressing his knees down, Agron rears up behind Nasir, hips slamming into Nasir, rocking him forward. They’ve done this so many times, and yet Agron doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. Not really. The way Nasir’s skin looks, sweat slick and bronze, a curl of black hair sticking to his jaw. He’s gripping down on Agron every time he thrusts in, infuriating and beautiful, and Agron wants to keep him here for as long as he can. He wants to feel every breath, watch Nasir come apart in pleasure and then cling to Agron, slide into that space when everything feels alright. 

“You can hate me all you want,” Agron smirks, lapping at the sweat on Nasir’s jaw, “Doesn’t’ fucking change the fact you take my cock like you were made for it.”

“You’re just easy.” Nasir’s knees slide through the soft sheets, spreading his legs wider. “Could replace you with any other guy if I wanted. Just a cock to me.”

Agron doesn't take the words to heart, laughing as he slams into Nasir's body again, slapping his ass. He doesn't think Nasir even knows what he's saying at this point, breath wet and uneven as he presses his hips up higher, spreading his legs. Agron can feel him getting desperate, hands flittering around on the sheets, trying to ground himself. Reaching down, Agron slides his own hands along Nasir's arms, looping and entwining their fingers together so they press clasped palms into the bed sheets. 

"Wait! Agron, wait!"

Agron freezes at the words, the heat coursing through him instantly cooling at Nasir's desperate plea. He gently pulls back, careful as he eases out of Nasir and turns him over. Nasir collapses back into the pillows, panting hard and pressing the heels his hands to his eyes. His stomach is covered in precome, chest glistening with sweat, but Agron only notices the twin tracks of tears on his cheeks as Nasir shudders, shaking his head. 

"Are you okay? Did I-" Agron doesn't touch him, kneeling between Nasir's legs. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. No, of course not. It's just- It's too much." Nasir wipes at his eyes, trying to gain back some of that fire that burns in him. It's not there though, vulnerable and naked in Agron's huge bed. “Shit. Sorry.”

"Hey. Babe, come on." Agron gently reaches forward, pulling Nasir's hand away from his face and replacing it with his own. He rubs his thumb under Nasir's eye, surprised when Nasir turns his face, kissing his palm. 

"I don't hate you." Nasir whispers, damp eyelashes clumping together. "I don't. I want to but-"

"I know." Agron lays down next to Nasir, wrapping his arm around Nasir's waist while the other still stays pressed to his cheek. "I don't either."

"Why are we doing this? When did it all get so fucked up?" Nasir turns his face into Agron's chest, clinging to him.

"It'll be okay. We'll figure it out. You know Spartacus has a plan." Agron gently pulls back, holds Nasir’s face between his hands and makes him meet his eyes. “I’m not going to let anything else happen to you.”

Nasir just stares at him, eyes still leaking and cheeks red. He can’t believe him, Agron knows this, desperate and fearful of the future, but Nasir still leans forward, hooks a leg around Agron’s waist. When they kiss this time, it’s something new, something different. Nasir’s mouth is soft, falling lax and gentle against Agron’s own, a chaste press before Agron guides them in for more. Inhaling slowly, he works his fingers into Nasir’s hair, kisses him deeper, tongues sliding against one another as he presses their bodies together. 

Rubbing his fingers along Agron’s back, Nasir clings to him, entangling their legs. He gasps when Agron gently bites his bottom lip, allowing himself to be rolled over onto his back, Agron on top of him once more. It’s different this time, Agron’s weight not crushing but a reassuring heat, nestling back between Nasir’s legs as if he was made to always be there. N

“Let me do this right.” Agron murmurs into Nasir’s ear, breath warm as he rocks his hips forward. “Let me show you how we should have been doing this all along.”

Nasir nods, quick and sure, looping his fingers through Agron’s hair and caressing the side of his face. He meets Agron’s eyes as the other man pulls back, mouth wet and gaping as Agron lines up again. They’re close enough to share the same breath, legs and arms entangled in one warm press as Agron sinks back inside of Nasir. It’s different from this angle. Agron can see the way Nasir’s eyelashes flutter, the blush spreading across his cheeks, a sliver of a grin spreading across his gasping mouth. 

Agron kisses him then, keeping his body down and flush to Nasir’s, rutting into him in short and deep grinds. It presses his cock against Nasir’s prostate, pleasure high and pulses beating in tempo to one another. Agron can barely breathe like this, so close to Nasir that every shudder and tremble echoes down through his own body. He doesn’t know why they’ve been fucking so rough, pain to keep the charade up that they hate each other. Agron doesn’t though, can’t hate this magnificent man underneath him. 

Wrapping his legs around Agron’s waist, Nasir buries his face in Agron’s neck and clings to him. He can feel the soft press of Agron’s teeth to his neck, boldly sucking and nipping at the skin to mark him. Nasir knows he should warn Agron not to, should tell him it’s dangerous and that he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want Agron’s affection, but it’s a lie. If Nasir were honest with himself, really truly honest, the truth has been there before him all this time. It’s not just a passing fancy, a hard fuck whenever they get pissed at each other. It’s love – dangerous and snarling – that draws them back together every time. 

When Nasir comes, he kisses Agron like he’s dying, whimpering and hissing into his mouth, nails digging into his back. Agron works him through it, thrusts into him and strokes his cock, smearing it against his own stomach in the process. Nasir’s eyes are still leaking, but he stares at Agron in awe, legs trembling as he yanks Agron back down.

Agron stays back down, encloses Nasir in his arms as he ruts into him, so fucking close. It doesn’t take him long, not with the way Nasir is clenching down him, body shaking as Nasir gasps for breath. Agron’s growl is nearly lost in Nasir’s neck, teeth clamping onto the skin and staying. The mark he leaves behind is a brilliant red, violet in the middle, and Nasir presses his fingertips to it, smiling when the pain blossoms there. 

The aftermath is slow, gentle as hands caress over skin and across hair, kissing gentle and exploring, taking their time. Agron has never gotten the chance to really watch Nasir in the afterglow, the way his skin shines and his eyes turn bright, clinging to Agron but also basking in the feeling of pleasure. He’s beautiful, and Agron tells him so over and over as he uses a discarded towel to wipe them both down. 

Finally, the settle into the bed properly, Nasir curled along the length of Agron’s body, his head center on Agron’s chest, one ear close enough to hear Agron’s heartbeat. 

“You could stay here.” Agron whispers, writing shapes on Nasir’s back with his fingertips. “Hide out until we figure out a safer plan.”

“You know I have to go back tomorrow,” Nasir cranes his neck up, kisses Agron’s jaw. “Someone will notice.”

“Fuck them. You belong with us anyways. You’re not some rich asshole,” Agron grits out, chest tightening and tense at the idea of Nasir going back there, falling under Caesar’s control. Roman shits and the terror they inflict on their ‘men’. 

“Hey.” Nasir leans up then, kisses Agron slow and gentle, nuzzling against him after. “It’s not just about me. You know I only agreed to help Spartacus because he promised he’d get Pietros out too.”

Agron thinks of the red serpent tattooed on Nasir’s ankle, the ownership forever implanted in his skin. It makes Agron’s own crawl, cradling Nasir’s face and kissing him again and again, trying to convince himself that if they just stay here, in this bed, that everything outside of it will fall away.

“Let’s just pretend then, yeah?” Agron whispers, nose brushing the side of Nasir’s, “That everything is how it okay, just for tonight.”

“I’m here in your bed with you.” Nasir smiles, soft and honest, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “There is no other way it should be.” 

Agron doesn’t stop kissing Nasir for a very long time.


End file.
